Silent Vice
by A.J. Hamilton
Summary: Gerald Reynolds turns eighteen the day Germanic troupes storm Holland, casting himself and his family into conflict they had hoped to avoid. He must lead them to safety with nothing but his wits and memory, but what he least expects is for a certain American to help him along the way as war rages on. Set during WWII. (slight) America x Male OC


When I noticed the pale orange glow emitting from through the small stained glass window in my room, I did not arise as he normally did; which was to go downstairs and water the plants, then start making breakfast; but instead sat up to observe the six other beds, which closely spaced together for there not being a massive amount of space in the shared compartment. The one sitting pressed up against the left wall was occupied by a small heap, silently shifting under the baby blue blankets, this action making his tussled ginger curls to splay even further across the pillow in a variety of angles. Arthur hugged his tattered, old stuffed bear close to his form and snuggled deep within the sheets, a pleasant smile gracing his lips as his freckle speckled nose twitched much like a rabbit. The next bed over had a somewhat larger mass laying beneath the blankets, but there was no movement shown except for the steady rise and fall, signifying that the boy was breathing. Mendel always slept on his back at night, arms placed at his sides or on his chest, and never changed his position, not even during subconsciousness. It was slightly disturbing to say the least, the sight making him look lifeless at first glance. Onto the next, there lay Isidor, on his side with his right hand under the weight of his pillow and his head. Incoherent words tumbled out of his mouth as he mumbled sleepily about heaven knows what. I managed to pick out two phrases in all of it, while the rest was a jumbled mess. Something about 'Robert Musil' and 'pink elephants' I think.

On the next bed, there lay Alexander. 'Lay' probably wasn't the right word, for it completely falsifies the entire scene that was front of me. Alexander was half on the mattress, half off with his legs hanging in the air while the top part of his body hung limp; giving the occasional twitch of a lanky limb; in a ninety degree downwards angle, his head resting on the hard wood floor. Loud, obnoxious snores erupted from his direction, and I leaned over to see drool seeping from the corner of his lips. His sheets were no longer covering him, and lay crumpled in the middle of the room, along with his-

"Good God, Alexander!" I shouted, causing the four sleeping figures to shoot awake, screaming in shock at the sudden noise. It was only then that I noticed the two empty beds to my right side, but I was already too familiar with that kind of absence in the morning to be worried about it rather than the dreadful sight of Alexander's whole night time attire that lay next to his sheets, leaving him nude and dazed in front of us.

Mendel shrieked in horror and clambered to cover Arthur's eyes, who was immensely confused by everything in that moment, and equally tired. Too tired to push his brother away when he pulled him into his chest and began to pet his hair soothingly.

"What's going on?" His shrill voice was muffled through the pressure of his face being compressed in Mendel's shirt, but I could still decipher what he was saying.

Mendel cooed softly, shaking his head.

"Nothing you need to worry about. Just don't look at Alexander right now." He then turned to glare at the main star of the scene, who was just beginning to rise from his uncomfortable position on the ground with a slight bruise on his forehead, having bumped it on the beds dashboard when I shouted.

"Put some clothes on this instant you _raving hooligan_." Mendel seethed, and Alexander scoffed with a smirk before stretching. The rest of the group all averted their gaze in disgust, and Isidor gagged.

"Yes, _mum_."

After a few minutes of shuffling, drawers being opened and closed, and then the sound of clothes being put on, Alexander finally spoke.

"Y 'all can look now."

Mendel groaned, and removed Arthur's face from his chest to move to his own dresser and pull out his own outfit. Isidor did the same, as did I, and they spent the next ten or so minutes arranging ourselves for the morning by following our daily schedule. Once I had my socks on, pulled up to mid-calf height, I sauntered to the portrait mirror that they shared and ran my fingers through my beige locks until they were successfully driven away from my left cheek, where a Band-Aid was attached to the skin there. Humming in satisfaction, I buttoned up the last two buttons of my shirt and fixed my collar, then flattened out the wrinkles in my slacks. When I glanced back, the others were fully dressed, Mendel finishing helping Arthur slip on his lemon-yellow cardigan. When his head popped out of the top, he giggled and reached for Mendel to pick him up, to which he gladly did so with a grunt. He was six now and well capable of walking and running on his own, but he still enjoyed being carried around by everyone, saying he liked feeling so tall on our shoulders or backs.

"Y 'all." Arthur giggled. Mendel walked over and slapped Alexander accusingly on the arm, and I laughed at the annoyed expression on his face when he squinted deeply at him.

"Look what you've done: You've tormented his pure mind. 'Y 'all' is not the correct term you should be using. You say, 'you all' or in this case, 'you few'. We learn about grammar in school for a reason, imbecile."

Alexander mocked pain, and gasped.

"You wound me! Why call me such hurtful names dear brother? Why?"

Another groan, and Mendel craned his neck to look at Gerald desperately, helplessness and resentment laced in his tone.

"I don't know why we keep him here, he's a bother to have around-oh, do be a dear and grab my glasses, please? I'm quite blind without them."

Hurriedly grabbing his thin, circle frame glasses off of the table stand, I breathed on the lenses and wiped them of the fog, then checked for any dust or grime that had collected on them. Seeing nothing, I placed them on the bridge of his nose and placed the ends behind his ears, knowing that his hands were temporarily occupied by the cause of hauling Arthur. He thanked me and nodded as a motion for Isidor to open the door, where he stood patiently waiting. The five of us walked in a straight line down the wide hall and kept careful as to not knock down any of the picture frames or bump into one another while descending on the creaky spiral staircase. Arthur cheered upon the scent of bacon and eggs drifting through the air, and once we had reached the bottom of the stairs, leapt out of Mendel's arms to find a place at the dining table. Eleven chairs were placed around it, as well as a clean plate, fork and glass at each seat. Bernstein, a normally stoic boy around my age with shiny blonde hair and a thick Austrian accent was already seated, legs crossed and an impatient look on his face. He waited for us to sit down, and for Arthur to stop bouncing excitedly in his seat before speaking, quite rudely at that.

"Well, finally. I thought you'd never wake up."

"Oh, shut it, aristocrat," Alexander shot, twirling his fork in his hand. "It's our house, and we'll do as we please. Besides, you only got here a few months ago, so stop acting like you own the place."

Bernstein huffed, and crossed his arms with a scowl. Shuffling awkwardly in my chair, I gawked at the two boys having their menacing staring contest, dark auras practically surrounding them. I shivered. Our family certainly was. . .exotic as some might say. We had in fact taken Bernstein in about five months ago, under the most surprising of circumstances. I had been walking back from the train station with Isidor to gather some ingredients for supper from the market, when the most fashionably dressed boy I had ever seen in all my days came strutting in, grabbing the attention of nearly everyone in the town square. I expected him to walk past me, not giving a second glance, but he caught me by the arm and demanded that I take him to my household immediately. I asked him why, and he snorted at me whilst flipping his hair and answered:

"Because I've run away from my parents, and I need a place to stay, obviously."

Yes, that was Bernstein. And yes, he was just as flamboyant, cocky and demanding as he was not too long ago. Not that I expected anything to change. On the subject, most of the family wasn't born from my mother's womb, but immigrants from other countries, or were orphans.

Isidor was from Israel and had traveled across the Mediterranean Sea to get here with his grandparents, who unfortunately passed once reaching their destination which left him in the care of our local orphanage. We picked him up when he was nearly ten years old, he was now thirteen and still the same as when we met him. Quiet, soft spoken and calm. Most of the time I felt guilty for not noticing him beside me, and his voice was so small that I could barely hear him when he was trying to get my attention. He didn't seem that bothered though, simply assuring me that it happened with everyone, even back in his old country and he was used to it.

Arthur and Mendel were both from the United Kingdom, me having addressed the fact as soon as I heard their posh accents and had been sent away to live with their aunt and uncle, only to find that they had been arrested by the Gestapo days before their arrival. I was astonished to find that they stayed in a library for the past few weeks under the watch of a simple librarian, who brought them food and water, and let them read her entire supply of books while she stayed off to do her work.

I visited the library on occasions to bring home novels for my siblings (though mostly for Isidor) and knew that I had to take them home when I saw the state of them. Dirtied clothes, grubby faces, and in need of a good bathing. The librarian had told me that she didn't have much to solve these situations in her shop, and her house was far too small to two children along with her and her husband, so she gladly let me take them back with me.

Alexander was no doubt, what with how he dressed, talked and acted in front of others, a true American. His mother was good friends with my father and asked if he could stay with us while she worked as a nurse for the army. Of course, we accepted, and although he was a hassle, and could be annoying at some points, I grew to see him as a brother over our time spent together, and he had his special moments with the rest of the family as well. He took vacations here before the war even started, sometimes staying for months or a year at most, so I knew him well, and vice versa. We did almost everything together. Inseparable some called us. Now you're probably still wondering about him and Bernstein, aren't you? Well, if you think that a flamboyant, cocky Austrian and a flamboyant, cocky, arrogant American would get along due to their similar personalities, you are terribly wrong. _Bernstein _was stuck up, and Alexander hated people of those qualities with a passion_. Alexander_ was insane and wild, and Bernstein preferred silence and tranquility, which were two things Alexander was incapable of providing. Not utter opposites, but I would go as far as to call them mortal enemies.

I myself was right from within Holland, born and raised, and I didn't plan on ever leaving unless it was necessary. I loved my home, even if it was under the control of the Germans. I would always love it. I loved the architecture, the people, the culture, all of it. What I loved most were the multicolored tulips that sprung up from the earth every spring, decorating the ground with a flurry of gorgeous color that brightened the dull gray atmosphere. For every tulip I brought home, I counted my hopes and wishes for the war to end, and for peace to come for all the men, women, children and soldiers corrupted by the darkness in the world. It was somewhat of a ritual I came up with when I was young, and it never left me since then. Bernstein said that it was a silly thing to do, and mocked me for it constantly, earning him a couple of harsh shoves from Alexander; trying to play my hero.

Bernstein yelped, and I saw Alexander smirk evilly at him from his spot at the table. Pursing his lips, Bernstein grabbed the arms of his chair and shifted. Then it was Alexander's turn to exclaim in pain. He brought his knee up to his chest and rubbed his shin and growled at Bernstein, who grinned triumphantly.

"Hey! I didn't kick you as hard! And that's not fair, you're wearing those fancy sharp heeled boots."

"It's not my fault you're too weak to handle me." He countered with sass.

"Oh heavens. . ." Mendel mumbled, massaging his temple. "Not again."

About the only thing Alexander and Bernstein had in common was their fiery temper, and the need to prove they were the alpha male. It was amusing, but every once and a while things got out of hand, and someone needed to step in and separate them. Someone, being my big brother.

Alexander's ear was caught between the thumb and pointer finger of the so-called savior of the situation and tugged roughly causing him to protest loudly. I let go the breath I was holding and gestured gratefully to the taller male standing behind me, who acknowledged it and pulled his 'prisoner's' ear again. Alexander swatted at him, gaining no possible chance to escape and whined.

"Ay, ay, ay! C'mon, let me go!"

His captor hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin with his free hand.

"I don't know, are you two going to behave?"

He looked to Bernstein with a warning glare, and he cowered slightly in his seat, as did Alexander. The boys nodded simultaneously, smiling nervously.

"Y-Yes, we will."

"Good."

Alexander's now red ear was released, and the older man then went to the sizzling pan on the kitchen stove to check if the bacon was done cooking. Grabbing a spatula, he went to the other pan there and flipped the golden, fluffy eggs over, and grabbed a timer from the shelf to set it for a few minutes until flipping them again. While the table fell into a small conversation, I sat silently staring at Elliot's back as he made breakfast. He wore his favourite navy-blue dress shirt that was tucked into his black jeans, a brown belt hooked around the waist, and old-fashioned brown leather shoes. His dark curls fell neatly over his face, and a few times he had to blow a pesky strand that had kept blocking his vision away. His glasses slowly edged down the bridge of his nose, so he pushed them back to their original place and began to chop up some apple slices on the cutting board. Elliot and I look alike in some ways for being so closely related, but I could name a couple of things that were particularly different.

My hair was wavy and of a lighter hue, and his was curly and darker.

His eyes were a mix of green and blue, and mine were brown.

He had the need of glasses, while I did not.

Our personalities were alike as well with minor changes here and there.

We were both laid back for the most part, not really giving care to some events that our 'siblings' chose to partake in, and responsible. We also were known to share our opinion openly, not caring who we offended with it, though in those terms I was a bit more prone to keeping the balance on the good side. The difference was that I made sure to show my feelings with others, and inform them of what my thoughts are, while Elliot rarely ever talked about what he was truly feeling. He kept a monotonous expression mostly, often letting a smile slip or a chuckle at something funny, but that was it. I could have sworn I saw dark bags under his eyes one day before he left for work, and I considered that being one of the reasons he looked so emotionless and tired during the afternoons when I was able to see him, but I never questioned him face to face. I knew he would only shake it off and tell me it was nothing, the stubborn male he is and always has been. Elliot was nearing the age of thirty-six, and I was seventeen, due to turn eighteen next month. His shoulders had broadened, and his muscles hardened, and though he didn't have a very large frame, he was average.

And he liked it that way.

But there were many things I had yet to learn about my older brother. Unsettling things.

He had become distant when our mother died, and even prior to that, I had a hard time understanding what his deal was. When I was a mere boy, I was told that he hadn't shown for my birth because he was stuck in Spain, dealing with important business, and a storm rolled in that delayed his ride home. I didn't resent him for it, I knew it wasn't his fault, but no one told me what this business was for. My father stated: "It's personal matters with your brother and a colleague of his. You shouldn't poke around in his work you know. He's a busy man.".

Elliot wasn't shut out from all the inquiries we had, so I was pleased with his answers to the specific things asked about the places he visited, such as the food and the scenery. And he always managed to bring back gifts for each of us, much to the appreciation of little Arthur, who could only describe Elliot's return as a second Christmas.

When the war began, Elliot shortened the amount of time he spent in neighbouring countries and continents to stay and help us cope with the bombings. Until then, he was gone for weeks, or sometimes months, holding secret affairs from the lot of us. All except Jane and Sylvia. My big sisters.

Jane was witty and charismatic, with mahogany red hair and a smile as bright as the sun itself. She brought joy to the home with jokes and fantasized stories, and on rainy days when were weren't allowed outside, built forts with us out of every spare pillow and blanket we had. She was childish for someone of her age, but we didn't mind at all knowing she was herself making us happy. Sylvia was a woman in her late thirties the same as Elliot, with short platinum dreadlocks and dark chocolate skin. She was the mother of the troupe, the one to read us to sleep and tuck us in at night, despite some saying we were too old for those kinds of treatment. She babied us when we were sick and sung us songs during the long hours of the evening when we couldn't get to sleep. She was probably the most peaceful and virtuous woman I had ever met. Sylvia was from Africa, while Jane was from Belgium, and had been adopted into the family for seven years till I was born. Elliot would leave for a while, come back, and the three of them would stay in an empty storage room next to the basement with the door locked, to talk of his journey. I knew it wasn't my business, and I shouldn't have concerned myself with it. But I felt left out, and I cared for Elliot and wanted him to be honest with me.

Whatever he was doing in those foreign countries wasn't sinister enough that he had to keep if from me, was it?

_No,_ I shook my head, and stared at the plate of food that was placed in front of me. _He's not like that. There's nothing sinister about him. _

Upon the end of my thought, there was a chorus of cheerful chatter from upstairs, and the sound of footsteps. Sylvia and Jane came into the kitchen wearing their Sunday best, matching floral dresses with white sweaters over top, and matching grins.

"Good morning, everyone!"

"Good morning!" We responded, just as enthusiastically. Jane and Sylvia took their desired seats on each side of Elliot, after they each gave him a kiss on the cheek and dug into their breakfast. Elliot pretended to be disgusted with their affections and wiped the places where they had kissed him as the girls giggled. Or, it might have been genuine disgust. I'm not quite sure. Soon, the dining room grew quiet, the only sounds being the clatter of silverware and clinking of glasses. Sylvia reached for the pitcher of water and poured some of the clear liquid into her glass, while Elliot grabbed a newspaper from the counter and placed it between himself and Jane, who read each line carefully with scrunched eyebrows. I frowned at them, and poked at my eggs, suddenly losing my appetite. The things written in newspapers were depressing and held nothing but sorrow those days, speaking of the American and British battalion fighting against Germany, and fallen soldiers. The overtaking of once pure and rightfully claimed lands. Ration shortages. It was all so horrible to think of. Yet here sat my two; then three as Sylvia joined her brother and sister in their reading; siblings observing the pictures and words printed out on the pages in form of the terror outside our very doorstep without showing a hint of worry.

"How can you guys sit there and read that terrible stuff right during the middle of breakfast?" I asked, causing the others to freeze and stare.

They shrugged simultaneously, not saying anything and continuing to read on. At one point, Jane pointed to a specific article on the front page, and whispered something into Elliot's ear, which he responded to with a nod, then whispered the same thing to Sylvia. At least, from what I could assume. It was hard to read their lips, even if they were only a mere metre apart. Mendel was closest to the bunch, so I nudged him with my foot and gestured to them with my head. He got the hint, and ever so slowly leaned over to get a quick glance at the paper, before sitting back straight in his chair and shrugging hopelessly.

I sighed, pushing my plate away and folding my arms. I wanted to know what was so infatuating about the news that those three had to spend the entire morning reading it.

Elliot shoved the paper under the table when we heard sudden movements approaching the door. We all fell silent, dreading now when the footsteps halted just as _we_ had finished talking.

Alexander gripped my hand, and I could feel the sweat growing near his palms when he did so as he stared fear stricken at the entrance. I had never seen him so afraid. He was shaking, this causing my own hand to shake with his, and I gave him a reassuring squeeze to try and comfort him.  
The knob turned.

There was a horrid creak when the wood frame swung open.

And there was father, grinning widely with a basket of various fruits and vegetables in each grasp, completely unfazed by our looks of horror and shock.

"Hello, children!"

Elliot was the first to get up, nearly tipping his chair over in a haste to rush to the door and yank our father inside. Sylvia was quick to shut the door fast as lightning, and rest her back against it, breathing heavily in anticipation. Soon, the two of them were guiding the older, now disheveled man to sit down while Jane grabbed the baskets and set them on the floor, obviously too caught up in everything to care where they were placed.

"What were you thinking, father?" Sylvia inquired harshly, cupping his cheeks and squishing them together to make his lips perk out like that of a fish. "Have you already forgotten the secret knock we use? We though you were the Gestapo for pities sake!"

"Sybiamph-Syb, I canf-"

"Sylvia, he can't speak when you're holding him like that." Jane stated, prying her sister's hands from our fathers face with desperation.

He thanked her and rubbed the place that had been held so roughly with a grimace.

Jane pushed Sylvia and Elliot back to stand in front of father and pressed her fingers together in a thoughtful motion. The two elder siblings awaited her speech, as well as the rest of us, as she smoothed the wrinkles in her dress and took a relaxed breath.

"Good. Now that that has been settled-What _were _you thinking? Huh? You scared us half to death! What if you were a member of the Gestapo? We would all be. . ." Jane continued her sisters rant full fledged, surprising all of us, then grasped our father's shoulders and began to shake him aggressively.

Alexander, no longer frozen with fear went to her side and tried to pull her off, Isidor following suit. Mendel shrunk at the conflict and covered Arthurs ears again, and Bernstein sat calmly, watching as it all played out. As Jane shouted at father, not only did her voice grow louder, but everyone else's in the kitchen. Normally we would never use this type of action with him for special reasons, but now that rule seemed to be discharged all at once. I could visibly see the tears begin to form in our father's eyes, making frustration and anger swell up inside of me. Elliot had obviously foreseen this and grasped both of Jane's arms to pull her away from the situation, much to her shock. When she was finally set at the other side of the room, she stared bewildered at the scene she had caused and hugged herself, the regret plainly written in her face. Father was now crying, tears flowing freely down his rosy cheeks as he shook helplessly, hands reaching out for someone, anyone to give him attention. Sylvia immediately pulled him close, wrapping him in a comforting embrace and rubbing his back soothingly, whispering sweet nothings in his ear whilst the noise gradually faded. If it had been anyone else, we would have given them a stern punishment for forgetting the knock we used as a signal that we were 'clean'. The one we established the minute since the Germans had invaded Holland. But it wasn't. And though I was surprised that this had been the first time he didn't remember to use it; I was more surprised at the fact that Jane had made father cry.

"Jane," Elliot spoke, making her look up at him with a frightened gaze, as if expecting him to scold her. Instead, he placed a hand on her cheek and caressed it, then nodded to the back exit.

"Go to the garden. We'll fix this."

All she could do was nod, and swiftly make her way to the place she had been instructed, not daring to meet any of our gazes. Once she had left, Elliot shook his head and turned to me, motioning for me to come closer. I did so and waited for him to say something. He never looked from where I stood, and his tone stayed soft, but stern.

"Sylvia, take father upstairs to bed."

"Yes, brother." She answered, gently helping father to the stairwell and leading him up to his bedroom, not before casting one last weary glance at us all.

"Mendel, let me know if someone else comes to the door, alright?"

Mendel gave a shaky "Okay", and with that said, Elliot gestured for me to follow him.

Our house was fairly large, having to hold a startling number of eleven people in it, so we spent a few minutes walking through the plain corridors to get where we wanted to be. Neither of us said a word, mostly because I was too nervous to ask where exactly we were going, and Elliot didn't seem to be in the mood for conversation. The silence was nerve-racking, sending me into a quiet panic while we slowly trekked deeper and deeper within the architecture of the household. To say that I was scared of my big brother was somewhat of a true statement, though I wouldn't admit that. He was cold at times, yes, and he would show little to no emotion, which set me off and made me think of him as some sort of soldier. He didn't pay much attention to me, unless he wanted me to do something, or it was just the two of us together. Even then, I barely got ten words out of him. Those in Holland described him as stony, or frigid towards others, and didn't particularly like him in most cases. Rumors had even stated that some thought he was secretly a German spy, working to gather intel and report back to them if trouble arose.

I didn't believe such things. There might have been reason to, but in my eyes, Elliot was just a busy, closed off man who didn't have time for feeling certain emotions. For the most part, that was a good enough excuse for me.

Elliot halted at a familiar, old wooden door, covered in dull scratch marks and a faded coat of white paint, which was beginning to peel of at the corners. He ever so slowly opened it, but only a sliver as to peak in and decide whether or not to enter. I knew now where we were of course, but I still had idea why we had come, or why we left the others behind.

"Um, Elliot. . ." I spoke, only to be hushed by him. He placed a finger to his lips and gently pushed me into the room, keeping beside me.

"Quiet now. We don't want to wake her."

The 'her' he referred to was the silent, motionless body that lay in the large bed, which looked like it might collapse at any minute, though it was actually very stable. We both tiptoed to the head of the bed and sat on the two chairs waiting there for us, folding our hands neatly in our laps as we observed the old woman. She was frail, her skin a sickly pale and sagging with layers of wrinkles, and anyone would have thought that a simple touch might make her fade into dust and ash. Her long gray hair was pulled into an extremely messy bun, most of the hair not even remaining in the elastics grip and leaving strands to fall this way and that, like branches of a willow tree. Her arms were comfortably set at each side of her, placed in a way similar to that of a dead corpse in a casket at a funeral. I knew she wasn't dead, which helped me cope a lot easier. She was only in coma.

_Just a coma. A coma that is possible she will never wake from. _

We half expected her to wake up during the past few months, mostly because of what the doctor had told us. Sadly, they were wrong.

I missed her voice most of all while she was resting. She used to sing so beautifully, in a way that I considered would make the songbirds jealous. When she had been awake, that was all the sound we ever heard, morning, afternoon and evening. If you gave her a request, she would sing it. There wasn't a song in the world she didn't have a strong remembrance of, so she could sing the lyrics loud and clear without hesitation. We had a radio, yes, but we never used it, not even when she 'went to sleep'. It felt somehow wrong to do so, and we made it a habit that if we wanted music, it would have to be from ourselves; from the heart; or we could go into the town square and listen to the musicians playing. The latter was quite impossible now, seeing as we couldn't get out of fifteen feet of the house's perimeter without being asked to show our papers. Not to mention that most of us couldn't sing, so we left that part to Sylvia and Jane. I snuck a glance at Elliot, who luckily was too focused on the woman to pay attention to me.

_Now that I think about it, I've never heard Elliot sing. Not once. Sylvia and Jane are always saying how he has a wonderful voice, but he doesn't bother to give us any hint that it's true, _I thought_._

Just another secret.

Elliot reached forward and moved a stray piece of hair from the woman's face, then closed his eyes and sighed softly. This was one of those very rare times when he was relaxed, and content. I noticed a slight tenseness in his shoulders and held back a groan of protest.

_Semi_-relaxed. _Somewhat_ content.

He removed his hand, staring at his feet mournfully and clenching his fists, then unclenching them in a repetitive pattern.

"Promise me something, Gerald."

I hummed, twiddling my thumbs absentmindedly and avoiding eye contact. If there was one thing worse than being stuck in a room with my menacing, monotone older brother, it was being stuck in a room with my menacing, monotone older brother and having conversation. It was hard to believe that we acted the way we did, when others assumed we were so close. A few years ago; twelve to be exact; I would have said that we got along just fine, without any issues whatsoever, despite him leaving the country for so long. But things were different since our mother passed away, and sometimes I wondered if Elliot blamed me for her death. The doctor had said it was from natural causes, but we all tend to lose ourselves and take sadness and anger out on others, don't we? Even if they had nothing to do with it.

"Promise me. . .that you'll take good care grandma when I'm gone. She may not have much longer, and I want her last memories to be of someone who did some good for her."

Gretta was her name. We only called her grandma because she acted so much like one, and when we first did, she was glad to know that she had such "lovely grandchildren", as she put it. That matter being settled, I was shocked. I didn't expect Elliot to put the life of Gretta in my hands, since he was already doing so well in taking care of her.

"What? But you're always the one to watch her. And you're doing a wonderful job." I complimented, though what I really meant to do was question his request. What did her mean by "when I'm gone"?

"Yes, I know. You should understand that I'm not going to stay here forever. You're becoming a fine boy, and soon you'll be the man of this place, running it just like I am. Or, however you chose to run it. Mama always wanted you to inherit this rusty pile of bricks and wood and start a family of your own."

"Why can't you do it?" My tone came out harsher than I planned, and Elliot gave me a sharp glare.

"I just told you why I can't."

"No, you haven't. At least, not the whole truth of it."

Elliot frowned, and I could see clearly the dark smudges of deep purple and black under his eyes, the distance between us scarcely centimeters apart. I almost thought he might hit me, his body ridged, ready to fight. I squeaked when he rose, then not breaking eye contact, swivelled the chair so it rested on the back wall. He looked taller from my position, towering over me like a wall, and an aura surrounded him, sucking every aspect of calm out of the room. I could have had control over the words I said, and maybe then we wouldn't be in this situation. I could have held my tongue. I could have just agreed with him and forgotten about the whole matter.

_Maybe we're more alike than we expect. Speaking before thinking was a trait we both unfortunately picked up early in life._

Elliot slouched, scoffed, and straightened his jacket. He swiftly made his way to the door and-

"You're leaving again, aren't you?" I asked, now wishing I hadn't. I dreaded his response, biting my lip in anxiousness.

". . .This discussion is over."

I wasn't normally one for crying, but the tears came freely once he had stepped out of the room, and I couldn't contain the sob that arrived afterwards. I forgot to kiss Gretta on the forehead like I usually would, and also forgot to close the door when I bolted into the hall. Elliot must have taken the way out to the garden to check on Jane, for I hadn't seen him once I reached the kitchen, where the rest of the family was waiting for me. I didn't care about that now. I didn't want to see Elliot anyways, and quite frankly, I didn't want to be in contact with anyone else either. Alexander gasped when he saw my saddened expression, and my tears, now flowing out like waterfalls, and stood up.

"Don't." I said, holding out my palms to stop him. Pushing him away was the last thing I wanted to do, but at the moment, I just wished to be alone. Shaking my head, I stuttered an apology and ran up the stairs, my legs turning to mush with each step. My siblings shouted for me to come back, but I blocked out their voices, covering my ears, making the pleads become muffled. I threw myself onto my bed, the mattress creaking as I did so, and buried my face into the pillow to quiet another racking sob. I shook helplessly, clutching the sheets with a tight grasp until my knuckles turned a deadly white, whimpers escaping from the bottom of my throat. Hugging my knees to my heaving chest, I let a few hiccups break down the exterior of my once cheerful mood, then watched as the light browns, yellows and beiges of the room blurred and mixed together due to the droplets of water invading my vision, spilling over and staining the sheets.

I could handle it when Elliot left when I was younger, and when mother and father were there to watch me. Now, I was older, father had been diagnosed with amnesia; which switched the roles and left me parenting him most times; mother was gone, and a war was brimming across Holland. He was leaving me to do God knows what in another part of the world, while I would be stuck in the grief ridden little town of Haarlem, waiting for the Germans to come and slaughter us all. Either that or being sentenced to slavery.

I then thought of what would happen to Elliot while he was off in a different land. He didn't specify where he was going, what country he would be visiting, or what he would be doing there.

He was no traitor. If he were, he would have turned us in already. So, when Elliot's 'far from home' business came to mind, I wondered of the duties he might have committed himself to, or what _people. _

_He could be part of a government agency._ I came up with various scenarios, each one both bizarre and reasonable for someone of his stature and personality. _He could be off helping poor citizens in need of food and shelter. He could be working on a billion of important things, which is why he can't stay here._

A billion important things that somehow mean more than we do.

_Do we mean nothing to him?_

_Or. . ._ I recalled the morning a few weeks ago when I had gone into Elliot's room to fetch him for supper. When he wasn't there, I found it hard to leave and go find him wherever else he could have been. I explored, not spotting anything out of order except a foreign looking jacket hanging on the single coat rack standing in a corner. The leather was hickory brown, while the hood was a peanut color, and perfectly made stitches lined the outside of the arms, ribs, then ending at the hips.

What startled me most was the bold capital letters, 'C, E.R' printed across the right breast pocket, and the flag stitched on the right upper arm.

The flag was imprinted with a blue triangle, and white above the red, separating in the middle.

Czechoslovakia.

It sat between Germany, Austria and Poland if I remembered correctly, and was barely more than one hundred and forty kilometers in area mass.

_Maybe. . .is that where he goes? If he kept a mere jacket with Czechia's flag on it, it must be significant to him._

My head throbbing, I sniffled softly and made it so I was lying comfortably under the covers. A tingly warmth spread over me, encasing my limbs with a numbing sensation. A little voice screamed not to go to sleep, that I needed to stay awake. A little voice screamed to continue crying until there was nothing left to cry about. A little voice said to confront Elliot and convince him not to leave.

My eyelids grew unbearably heavy, weighing down on me like a ton of bricks.

My mind became hazy, any clear thoughts being bombarded by an inky fog, jumbling every picture, every word that I tried to form. I felt so tired.

Time slowed to a stop.

One last chance was all I had. I closed my eyes and gave a shuttering breath, focusing on the request that still remained. The one I had been working up the courage to ask since I was a small boy.

_God, if you exist, please. Please, change my brother's point of view. He can't leave. He just can't. _

Darkness consumed me whole, trapping me in a dreamless slumber.

And the little voice hissed:

.

.

.

_Your time is up._


End file.
